


A natural

by forestgreen



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Gen, Indentured Servitude, Jason Todd is Deathstroke's apprentice, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Jason Todd is Not Robin, Kid!Jason Todd, Kidnapping, Master & Apprentice, Non-Sexual Dominance, Non-Sexual Submission, Non-sexual Dominance/submission, Pre-Relationship, Spanking, power abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestgreen/pseuds/forestgreen
Summary: "Alright." Slade puts the kid down and grasps his chin again, forcing Jason to meet Slade's eye. "What are the rules?"The kid frowns. "If you ask me something, I answer. Politely." He bites his lips before he continues in a small voice, "I'm yours now. If I disobey, you'll hurt me." He pauses briefly and his eyes well with unshed tears when he whispers, "Master."
Relationships: Jason Todd & Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 263
Collections: Bottom Jason Todd Week 2020





	A natural

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt ' _Jason is a different hero or villain’s sidekick_ ' for the Bottom Jason Todd Week 2020. 
> 
> Once again, Akelios wins in the beta-reader & supreme-enabler category. Thank you, darling! All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> **Mind the tags in this one!** Slade is orange in the creep-o-meter. Not totally evil!Slade but not particularly good either. There's no sex, but some blink-and-you-miss hints that it might happen once Jason is old enough to suit Slade's taste better. 
> 
> Title inspired by Imagine Dragons' _Natural_. That song suits this version of Jason so perfectly. The boy he's now, but also the man he'll become under Slade's training.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gotham is such a pit. Slade hates the city with a passion. Not because of Batman, though Batman makes it much worse. What Slade hates about Gotham is _Gotham_. A dump of human misery, desperation and hopelessness disguised as a city. Just breathing the polluted air is enough to push anyone three steps closer to terminal depression. No wonder so many crazy assholes are born and made there.

This time, he at least managed to eliminate his target without Batman being the wiser. An overall win. He's heading back to his hotel, careful to stay hidden when he sees the Batmobile parked on the street. Fucking hell! So much for avoiding Batman. He leans over the edge of the rooftop, staying as low as possible and peeks at the street. Just because the car is parked there doesn't mean he's been made.

He does a double-take. What the hell? The car's missing two wheels and a fucking kid, eight or nine years-old, way younger than Joey, is half way through removing the third tire. Slade chokes on a snort. Some street urchin is jacking the Batmobile. Only in Gotham!

This is prime entertainment happening right in front of him; there's no way he'll leave without knowing how it's gonna end. Even if he ends up in a fight with Batman, it'll be worth it for the chance to see the Bat's face when he finds out that some street punk jacked his fancy car.

The kid removes the third wheel and rolls it away. Slade's curious enough to follow him. For such a small thing, the boy sure has sharp instincts. He stops twice and looks up to the place where Slade's hiding, as if aware someone's following him. There's no way in hell the kid made Slade, not from that distance. The only reason Slade can see him is because of his enhanced senses. It's probably just a healthy dose of Bat-induced paranoia. Useful thing, especially in this city.

The kid stashes the tire in an old, condemned building three blocks away. He's careful going in and even more careful getting out. The boy goes so far as to take a strand of hair and place it strategically on the frame before he closes the door. A clever, if simple, system to determine if someone has disturbed the place while he's away. Slade wonders where he learned that.

Nonetheless, stealing from Batman, one of the biggest pains in the ass on the Justice League, and an overall obnoxious son of a bitch, is biting off more than the kid can chew. Slade can't decide if he's stupid, desperate or just plain ballsy. Maybe all three?

He follows the boy back to the alley. From his vantage point he sees the street before the kid does. Batman's there, waiting. Poor kid. Slade has to fight the stupid temptation to warn him. It isn't as if Batman will hurt the boy. He'll just scare him into never stealing again and force him to put back the tires.

In any case, Slade's in for a show and he intends to enjoy it. Too bad Batman is wearing his cowl. He'd have paid good money to see the constipated expression on Wayne's face when he realizes an eight-year-old bypassed his security. Fucking gold!

Slade was expecting entertainment, but what actually happens tops it tenfold. Batman catches the kid as he walks back into the alley, tire iron in hand. The little punk is clever enough to deny having anything to do with the theft, not that it helps him much. It's obvious that the kid's lying through his teeth.

When Batman calls him on it, asking what the tire iron is for, the kid just shrugs it off. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. With a straight face that’ll win him poker games the moment he's old enough to sit at a table, he approaches Batman as if to confess and _slams_ the tire iron against Batman's gut with all he has.

Well damn! The jury's in and the verdict is _ballsy_. It wasn't a light hit either. The kid put his full body weight into it, hard enough that Batman doubled over despite the body armor. If it weren't for that protection, Batman would have ended up puking all over the alley. The hit was placed beautifully, too. Anybody else would have gone down and stayed down.

Batman laughs out loud, and Slade does too. He can't help himself. Which proves to be a mistake. Batman forgets the fleeing kid and turns. Oops. Slade's been made. Ah well, getting out of Gotham without a run in with Batman is almost impossible. At least Slade had the pleasure of seeing the big bad Bat brought down low by a fucking street rat who doesn't weigh sixty pounds soaking wet. He'll relish that memory for years to come.

Since the fight with Batman is inevitable, Slade decides to repay the kid for the golden entertainment. He runs in the opposite direction, confident that Batman will follow. That should give the kid plenty of time to reach his hideout.

As usual, he and Batman are evenly matched, which rankles. Slade has the best enhancements the U.S. military could buy running through his veins whereas Wayne is just a plain vanilla human with fancy toys. Slade should have the upper hand easily, but easily never applies to the Bats. Still, they've danced this dance often enough that Slade can anticipate most of it. And as it happens, he brought a couple fancy toys, too.

He rams his right foot into Batman's gut, aiming for the same spot the kid hit earlier. He isn't expecting much from it, but Batman actually flinches for a second. The kind of second that decides a fight. Slade uses the advantage to slam his knee into Batman's face. Wayne blocks it and rolls away, but Slade has anticipated it. He spins, smashes his right elbow into the Bat's shoulder. His other knee rams into the small of his back. Batman stumbles. Slade jabs a laced dart into his face. Nothing deadly, just a little something to slow down the man long enough for Slade to escape.

He runs. There's no point waiting for Batman to catch his breath. Not that it'll happen any time soon. Slade has tested the toxin on himself—to better judge the type of damage it'll inflict and plan accordingly. It was a mean beast. It left him unconscious for almost five minutes despite his healing factor. By the time Batman recovers enough to walk, Slade will be back in his hotel room drinking a nice cold beer, waiting for daylight to come. "Better luck next time, loser."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slade's original plan was to leave Gotham the next morning, but he can't stop thinking about the kid. He spends the evening chuckling off and on whenever he remembers the little thief decking Batman with the tire iron. That wasn't an easy feast.

The kid has potential. 

On occasion, Slade has considered taking a leaf out of the Justice League's book and getting himself a little sidekick to help with some of his more complex jobs. He _is_ the best in his field, but there are jobs that would go smoother with a second set of hands. Working with another seasoned mercenary would be more trouble than it's worth. He's too set in his ways and he doesn't have the patience to nurse the fragile ego of men with half his skills. 

Now a kid, that might actually work. Someone who could be trained to meet Slade's taxing standards. Young and malleable enough to be easily manipulated into compliance and obedience. His very own apprentice.

The little thief seems the perfect fit. Much better than Slade's vague idea of capturing Robin and brainwashing him into compliance. The kid might not have the training Robin does, but he sure as hell has the right attitude. None of that hero-complex nonsense Batman has filled Robin's head with.

Character's everything. Slade can teach the brat to fight. That's not a little robin bird he'll be getting himself here, but a tiger cub: a tiny bundle of fumbling limbs and cuteness until you remember what it'll look like once it's gained a couple of hundred pounds and learned to kill. Deadly. Brutal. _Ruthless_.

Better yet, Robin would have had people—dangerous people—looking for him if he disappeared. Slade can deal with them, sure, but on pure practicality the little thief is the better choice. No one will search for a missing slum kid in Gotham. Even if his parents try to get the police involved, the cops will ignore them. They won't give two shits about some run-away Crime Alley trash.

Moreover, Slade likes a future in which he can pit a child trained by him against one trained by Batman. Won't that be fun? Yes, the kid is perfect. And Slade already knows his hiding spot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The strand of hair between the door and the frame is nowhere to be seen. Slade checks twice just to be sure. It can only mean two things: the kid got sloppy after his run-in with Batman (not very promising) or he changed locations (a bit paranoid but understandable). One way to find out.

When he opens the door, a loud metallic clanking takes him by surprise, echoing across the empty building hall. He kicks the door open the rest of the way. No point wasting time with subtlety now he's been made. There are empty cans scattered all over the floor, some of them still rolling away. One falls down a set of stairs with an even louder clank.

Well, damn, he didn't consider the third option. The kid or whoever shares the building with him is still inside. He'd thought the kid would still be at school, giving him plenty of time to find out more about the brat and set an ambush to catch him. Change of plans.

The entry hall is dim and dirty. The wooden stairs to the right are rotting and moldy. There are fucking calthemites growing like stalactites on the roof, drops of water gathering at the tip, waiting to fall. How old is this building? The whole structure gives the impression that it's held together only by the grace of god. The kid has to be fucking desperate to choose this place as a hiding spot. Though it's probably effective; no gang would be stupid enough to venture inside. Slade's already regretting entering, and he has healing powers.

The sooner he's out of here, the better. He listens, extending his enhanced senses as much as he can, concentrating only on the sounds. The building creaks with age. The rotting wood groans at random intervals. Rats or mice scurry away in the darkness, probably startled by the noise. There! At the end of the hall, footsteps. Light enough that they have to be from a child. Well, well, well, the little delinquent is skipping school. 

He follows the noise to a closed door. Muffled sounds come from the other side. Not voices, but the low shuffling of something being dragged. The kid, or whoever else is in there, is being careful. If it weren't for his enhanced senses, Slade wouldn't have heard a thing.

The handle of the door doesn't give when Slade tries it, but one kick is enough to splinter the cheap, thin wood around the lock. The door bangs open. 

What the hell? 

He'd been expecting some kind of crappy room-cum-warehouse with crates and stolen woods stashed everywhere and rats and spider webs crawling over everything. This isn't it.

There are two big old coffee cans acting as buckets underneath the leaky roof, and there's more wall than there's wallpaper, but other than that the room is _clean_ and surprisingly tidy. A thin mattress lies on the floor, with a duvet and a pillow on top. The bed is _made_. Adeline would love this kid. There's even a makeshift bookcase out of old wooden boxes stacked on top of each other. Not an impressive collection of books, but certainly nothing Slade was expecting to find in a place like this. This isn't a storage room for stolen goods, but the kid's home.

The only thing that speaks of the kid's nocturnal activities are a couple of tires stacked on top of each leaning against the wall. Not just the ones from the Batmobile—Slade chuckles when he sees those—but other sets, too.

His assessment of the kid's situation changes. He isn't some little punk stealing tires to earn some extra cash without his parents being the wiser. Slade studies the room again with this new insight: posters of bands taped to the wall, small pyramids of canned food in the corners, the framed picture of a smiling woman, a tattered armchair next to another wooden box acting as a side table. Everything in the room speaks of love and care, despite how old and run-down it is. Of effort put into making the place habitable. But the mattress is much too thin and small to fit a grown-up and there's just the one. The kid lives alone. Nothing in the room—except how unexpectedly tidy it is—speaks of adult supervision of any kind.

Taking the little thief and turning him into his apprentice will be simpler than Slade originally thought. He only needs to find the little punk. The footsteps came from this room. Slade's senses have never steered him wrong before. Where's the kid? The room has no place to hide. The door was locked when Slade came in. The only window is boarded. He checks it anyway, but the boards have no give. The boy didn't go out that way. A more thorough search is called for.

His estimation of the kid rises when he finds a second exit hidden underneath the wooden boxes acting as bookcases. There's even a thin rope fixed to the wall which allows the boy to slide down the hole in the floor noiselessly. The boxes, nailed to each other so that they can't topple over, rest on top of an old, ragged rug, which hides the exit. The kid must have used the rug to pull the boxes back in place. Not perfectly, but close enough that most people would have forgone searching the room, assuming no one was there.

The hole leads to some kind of basement. The entrance is much too small to fit Slade, but the wooden planks on the floor are in as terrible a shape as the rest of the building. A couple of kicks are enough to splinter the planks, broadening the hole enough for Slade to jump without getting stuck.

The light filtering from above is enough for his enhanced senses. At first glance, the basement seems empty, but Slade has learned his lesson. The kid can't be trusted. He takes his time going through every nook and cranny. The boy isn't there. He finds a second rope leading back to the upper floor next to the crumbled stairs. Fuck him sideways, the kid gave him the slip.

Slade laughs out loud. Slade _wants_ this boy. He's much too clever to be wasted on Gotham's streets.

Slade can't afford to wait for the kid to return. The boy knows his safe place has been made. If he's half as cunning as he seems to be, he'll stay away for a couple of days. A couple of days Slade doesn't have. Batman knows he's in town and will be searching for him. He needs to be out of Gotham before nightfall, and the kid will be coming with him.

Slade hates Gotham, but there's something terribly convenient about a city filled with cutthroat assholes who will sell their mother for the right amount of cash. A little cash and some inquiries later, Slade knows where the boy is. Apparently, he likes to spend his time in the public library of all places. That's the last place Slade would have thought to check.

A quick search shows him that the local library closes at 2:30 p.m. on Fridays. Plenty of sunlight left to abscond with the kid and skip town before Batman comes sniffing. The library has only one entrance, easy enough to case. Slade sets his ambush and waits. Not the most fun part of being a mercenary, but the job teaches you patience.

More people start to leave the building shortly before it closes, but the boy isn't among them. 2:30 p.m. comes and goes and for a moment Slade worries that his intel is wrong. Now that would piss him off. He's about to go beat up the asshole stupid enough to lie to him, when he sees the kid walking out of the library with three women.

"Take care, Jason," the oldest woman says, ruffling the boy's head with a benign smile. Jason, a strong name. Slade likes it.

"Will do, Mrs. Miller," Jason answers and waves goodbye.

That's a relief. For a moment there, Slade thought he'd misjudged the situation and the kid did have grown-ups looking after him. But even if the boy spends enough time in the library to know the employees by name, Slade doubts that some underpaid library clerk will raise the alarm if the kid never returns.

The other two women walk with Jason for a while, hindering Slade from springing his ambush. Gotham might be a cesspit, but kidnapping children in broad daylight in front of witnesses is not without its risks. The last thing he wants is an amber alert screwing with his plans.

Slade doesn't need to wait long. The women enter a small grocery shop and Jason says his good-byes, claiming his mother's waiting for him. Little liar. Slade continues to follow him unobtrusively. Just as a Slade suspected, Jason doesn't go back to the old building, but walks in a completely different direction. The boy keeps checking his surroundings, but that's probably an ingrained instinct further exacerbated by his run-in with Batman and Slade.

For all his caution, the kid's still too confident. He feels at ease in Gotham, taking turns and passages which lead him away from the main road. It serves Slade's purpose.

His original plan involved talking to the kid and offering him the opportunity to become his apprentice. No was never gonna be an acceptable answer, but Slade's sales pitch ought to have sparked hunger in an under-appreciated slum kid who doesn't have much going for himself. That plan is out of the window. Slade needs to leave before nightfall and the kid has already cost him precious hours with his antics. The little thief doesn't deserve the velvet touch any longer.

Slade picks up his pace and corners the boy. The little scuffle that follows doesn't even deserve to be called a fight. The kid weighs close to nothing and barely comes up to Slade's waist. For all that he kicks and bites and tries his best to get away, his best is laughable. Slade slaps a hand over his mouth and nose to stop his screaming and lets him kick and squirm until the lack of oxygen pulls him under.

The rest is easy enough. Slade doesn't take jobs that involve killing or kidnapping children, but he knows how to pull it off. He duct-tapes the kid's mouth, strips his red hoodie jacket and zip-ties his hands. He lays the unconscious kid down and checks the contents of his battered backpack: a change of clothes, underwear, socks, a couple of granola bars, a small wad of five and ten dollar bills tied together, a pack of cigarettes and two paperbacks. Someone likes books.

Well, damn! A getaway bag. This kid's already a mercenary in the making. Slade will have to teach him how to fight right, but his instincts are flawless. Slade throws the cigarettes away but keeps the backpack. A child who lives on the streets will hate to lose his few belongings after he had to steal, fight and bleed for them. It costs Slade nothing to let the kid keep his possessions, and a little goodwill goes a long way.

He slings the backpack over his shoulder and picks up the kid, cradling his face against Slade's collarbone to hide the duct-tape covering his mouth. He throws the jacket over the kid's shoulders and pulls the hood up, further obscuring the boy's face and his tied-up hands.

As he walks out of the alley, he's careful to keep an easy, confident gait. A loving father carrying his exhausted son back home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing suspicious.

He makes it to his car without incident. A quick glance shows him that no one is around. He extends his senses, listening for footsteps or voices, but only silence greets him. Perfect. He stashes the boy in the trunk and throws the backpack in with him. Jason's pulse is a bit slow but steady, nothing to worry about. Slade ties the boy's ankles with another zip-tie and closes the trunk, pleased with himself. An excellent catch.

He drives away immediately, wanting to be outside the city by the time the kid regains consciousness. Less chance of anyone noticing anything amiss that way.

In Gotham, life goes on. No one reports a missing child, because no one misses one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slade's surprised when after three hours driving he still hasn't heard any noise coming from the trunk. Kidnapping isn't his usual gig, but he's done it on occasion. More when he used to work for the government than after he started freelancing. The moment people regain consciousness, they usually start kicking and screaming, even if they have their mouths gagged, trying to make some noise to get themselves noticed. They at least try to _escape_.

The kid's silence is starting to worry him. Slade's sure he's awake. Jason wasn't loud, but Slade's enhanced senses allowed him to pick up some shuffling and shifting a couple of hours ago. He expected the typical noises to follow: whimpers, muffled screams, the thud-thud sound of the kid kicking against the trunk to get it open. It's the reason he chose the interstate. No one driving 80 miles per hour with windows closed, air conditioning on and music blaring through the speakers will hear a thing.

The lack of noise isn't normal. The boy isn't one to cower easily, he proved that before. Slade would have heard him hyperventilating or having a panic attack, wouldn't he? What if he's wrong, though? He can't help thinking of Joey. The kid's probably as old as Joey was when he was taken, maybe a year older. Certainly not nine yet. Slade's stomach twists if he thinks too much about it. What if Slade overestimated the kid's resilience? The boy isn't one of the Titans; he isn't Robin. Just some small street rat who's probably terrified. Had Joey been terrified, too, when he was kidnapped by Slade's enemies? Slade knows the answer to that one, even if he's never been brave enough to ask Joey the question.

Damn it! He should have taken the time to convince the kid to come with him, instead of knocking him unconscious and stashing him in the trunk of the car. ' _You think?_ ' It's never a good sign when he starts imagining Billy's mocking and displeased tone.

The uncertainty gets the better of him. Jason's of no use to him dead or traumatized into catatonia. "God damn it!" Slade curses under his breath, and takes the next exit to drive off the interstate.

He crossed the state border from Pennsylvania into West Virginia a while ago, but still has a long drive ahead to reach his safe house in Kentucky. Slade picks one of the roads leading towards Coopers Rock State Forest, searching for an unpopulated area to park the car and check on the kid.

The number of cars sharing the road with him dwindles down to nothing the deeper he drives into the forest. Twilight is a good hour away, but the majority of hikers and campers traveling the area either left or arrived a while ago. He takes a sharp right into a small unpaved road that leads into the woods proper, ignoring the sign warning trespassers off, claiming the road is exclusively for park rangers.

He stops after a while, confident that he's put enough distance between himself and the main road. No one will bother him here. He turns off the ignition and waits, listening. Still no sound. Slade checks his watch: almost four hours since he took the kid. The need to piss alone should have had him raising a ruckus. Damn it, the kid better not be dead. Slade's going to be extremely crossed if the boy dies on him after all the trouble he went to get him. Child killer isn't a skill he wants on his resume. 

The brat isn't dead. The brat is a little piece of shit, and Slade's gonna be the one to wring his neck the moment he catches him. 

He opened the trunk, somehow expecting to find the kid either passed out, choking on his own vomit or dead. He hadn't finished opening the damned thing, had yet to lay his eye on the kid, when he's struck by the barbs of a taser. Right in the belly. By the time he realizes what the barbs are, his muscles are already convulsing under the shocks of electricity.

Contrary to popular belief, being strong is more a hindrance than a help when tasered. Electricity travels better—and hurts more—the more muscle mass one has. Slade goes down like a brick house. The little piece of shit jumps out of the trunk while Slade's still convulsing. He runs as if the hounds of hell are after him.

Oh, the hounds of hell are gonna be after him all right.

Muscle mass and enhanced reflexes didn't help him against the taser, but enhanced healing sure does. Once the taser stops fucking shocking him, it takes Slade barely a minute to shake off the aftereffects and get up. Anyone else would have been out of commission long enough for Jason to actually get away. As it is, all the taser gives him is a couple of minutes head start.

Slade chases the brat running at maximum speed. His longer legs and enhanced strength eat the distance away. He's gonna make that kid regret the day he was born.

The little hellion can run, but it's obvious he's never been in a forest before. Not surprising for a city rat. Another advantage for Slade. He doesn't even have to rely on his enhanced senses to follow the kid, the obvious path of broken twigs and muddy footsteps is as effective as a GPS signal.

Soon enough he can see the brat's red hoodie in the distance. Kid should really have left it behind. The bright red is impossible to miss in the otherwise green and brown forest. Seeing the kid spurs him on. Slade sprints, springing over broken branches and fallen trees, getting closer and closer with each step.

Jason hears him and looks back mid dash, stumbling on the ground. Another mistake. He stands up and runs faster, but the fall costs him precious seconds, seconds he doesn't have, not with Slade less than twenty feet away.

Slade doesn't slow down when the brat comes into reaching distance. He keeps running at full speed and tackles him to the ground. The boy screams and kicks, trying to get away, but Slade has 150 pounds of pure muscle on him, and he knows how to use them.

The kid's tattered backpack rips during the struggle and Slade's throws it aside.

"You fucker!" Jason snarls and bites him, teeth digging into Slade's forearm with enough force to draw blood.

Slade yanks Jason's head away, ignoring the pain, and slams his face against the ground. He holds the kid by the nape while he wrenches the boy's arms behind his back, clasping both forearms together with one hand. He pins Jason's thighs with one knee, stopping the annoying kicking and uses his weight to hold the kid _fucking down_. 

"Help! Help! Somebody help me!" the brat shouts, loud and desperate. The birds around them fly away in a loud flurry of wings and tweets, scared by the racket.

"Shut up, kid," Slade grunts, grabbing the boy's black curly hair and yanking his head up in a painful grip. "There's no one here to hear you, let alone help you."

"Piss off, asshole!" Jason growls, still trying to wriggle away.

Fucking Gothamites never know when to quit. It has to be something in the water. Slade doesn't have the patience for this.

"Fine, if you want to scream, I'll give you something to scream about." Slade stands up and hefts the brat by his arms and hair. He drags the boy towards a fallen tree trunk, ignoring the feeble kicking. He sits down and pulls the kid over his lap, pressing the brat's face against the rough bark of the tree trunk. Slade yanks Jason's jeans down. The kid's so scrawny that they slide right off, without Slade having to open the fly.

"Let me go! Let me go, you fucking perv!" Jason screams, increasing his struggles, but it doesn't help him much. The waistband of the jeans become an effective restrain, stopping him from kicking too much.

Slade yanks his underwear down as well. Nothing like a good bare-bottom spanking to teach willful boys a lesson. It'd worked wonders with Grant and it'll work on this brat as well. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Children need discipline; Slade's future apprentice even more so. He won't tolerate insubordination, the sooner the brat realizes it, the better.

He presses the boy's face harder against the fallen tree, pinning him, and spanks him. Hard.

The boy stutters over his cursing, the last ' _fuck_ ' turning into a soft, surprised squall.

Slade swings again, putting more force into it, not letting the brat catch his breath. Slade's hand connects with a loud smack against the boy's other cheek. Twin pink handprints blossom against the pale flesh of the kid's ass. The shape of his palm forming on one cheek while his fingers form on the other. Jesus, the kid's scrawny.

"You fucking bastard! I'm gonna kill you! Wait till I'll get free!" Jason seethes.

A scrawny, little, _resilient_ thing. Slade huffs. "You really need to learn to pick your battles, kid. We'll work on that once we start your training."

He swings again, going back and forth between one cheek and the other. Jason's ass and the back of his thighs pink and redden, becoming darker and darker, until his flesh glows a deep shade of crimson. 

Slade doesn't keep count. He's only gonna stop after Jason breaks and submits. He kinda wishes he had, though, if only to gauge how much pain the kid can take. Slade isn't going easy on him, but the boy takes it, and takes it, and takes it.

Grant would've been wailing and begging for him to stop after the fifteenth spank. Slade usually took it all the way up to thirty just to make the lesson stick. He's way past that by the time the kid stops cursing him.

Slade's cock gets a bit hard under Jason's constant squirming. That, more than the pain seems to be what silences the boy. A particularly hard slap rocks the brat just right against Slade's growing hard-on, yanking a breathy moan out of Slade. The boy freezes, stopping mid struggle, and _finally_ shuts up.

The kid tries to move away from Slade's cock, but that only pushes his ass into the next slap. The force of it rocks him forward again. Slade grunts and thrusts his hips forward by reflex, chasing the sensation. 

He lets the boy's face go and moves his left hand up until it is pressed between Jason's bony shoulder blades. The boy's ass and thighs are glowing red. Slade brushes his hand softly against the hot, swollen flesh, slightly awed by the damage the kid has taken without breaking. They grow them sturdy in Gotham; no wonder Batman and Robin are such a pain.

Strangely enough, the small breather is what unmakes the boy at last. A quiet, half-choked whimper catches Slade's attention. The kid turns his face away and bites down on his grubby fist, trying to stop any more sounds from breaking out.

Slade pulls Jason's hand away almost gently. The silent suffering reminds him of Joey—his little boy, who can't cry or beg anymore because of Slade's failure.

"It's all right," Slade tells the kid. "Let it out. Let it all out. Almost over now. Just six more and you'll be done. You're doing so well." The number is reward and punishment. An end in sight, something for the boy to look forward to, and at the same time a reminder that he has no say in what's happening to him. Slade owns him, and Slade's decisions are the only ones that matter.

The boy shakes his head and sobs, louder this time. Slade aims for the soft crease between ass and thighs and the strike connects with a loud smack. Jason's on the brink of breaking and Slade needs to make every slap count. He wants those five last spanks burned into the boy. He wants Jason to believe that he _can't_ take them, that the pain will kill him, only for Slade to make him take them anyway. 

He hits the exact same place with a bit more force. Jason wails, breaking into loud sobs that wreck his small body. That's more like it, Slade thinks, and strikes again. Same spot. Kid's gonna be feeling it for days, every time he sits, every step he takes. Swollen, bruised skin reminding him of the price of defiance. Slade switches to the other leg with the fourth spank, giving the crease below the boy's right ass cheek the same treatment. Three and three. He likes the symmetry of it.

Jason doesn't notice when it's over. He's bawling, his small body shaking with pain. Snot runs down his blotchy face as Slade gathers him up, cradling him against his chest, hushing him. He clings to Slade and cries, fight and defiance completely gone. Slade lets him get it out, petting his back, nuzzling against the black hair.

The kid smells a bit ripe, of unwashed boy and days old sweat. How long has he been on his own? Long enough to have put together that cozy little room of his. Much too long for a boy his age. No wonder the kid's clinging like an octopus to him. He must be touch-starved.

Something to keep in mind. Slade makes a mental list of all the things he needs to take care of while Jason cries himself out against Slade's chest.

Get food and water into the boy as soon as they're back in the car. Schedule an appointment with Dr. Villain to give the kid a thorough check-up. Set up a meal plan to help him gain weight. Start the boy's training. Sort out the legalities of having a minor tagging along. Figure out what to do about school.

Tell Billy.

Damn it. That one's gonna get ugly. Billy ain't gonna be happy. Maybe he should wait until the boy's ass has healed before he tells Billy, otherwise he's never gonna hear the end of it.

It takes a while for Jason to finish crying. He doesn't try to get away from Slade's chest, just stays there, listless and quiet, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Slade caresses his back with steady, gentle strokes. A quick glance at the sky shows him twilight isn't far away now. He pulls the boy from his lap and sets him on his feat, steadying him when his knees buckle.

Slade cradles the kid's face with one hand and wipes the wet tear tracks with his thumb. "Come on, time to go, kid. Get ready."

The boy stares at him blankly. He seems to have retreated into some far away corner in his head.

"Pull your jeans up, kid. We're leaving," Slade repeats patiently.

Jason blinks and looks down with a frown, as though he has somehow forgotten that he's half naked. He pulls up his underwear mechanically, undoes the fly of his jeans and puts them back on. His hands fall to his side as soon as he's done and he stays there, waiting. 

Something akin to regret tugs at Slade's heart. Fuck, the kid's crashing on him, shock and endorphins and whatever cocktail of chemicals the constant fear of the last hours trapped in the trunk pumped into him. That hadn't been Slade's intention, but the kid pissed him off with his little stunt, which reminds him, "Where did you get that taser?"

Those dark doe eyes glance up at him. "Black market," the kid slurs, swaying.

"Where did you hide it?" He didn't noticing him carrying a fucking taser.

"My backpack." He tears his gaze away from Slade and looks around the clearing for it. He takes one step towards it once he locates it, but stops. His eyes dart back to Slade, a spark of fear lurking beneath the emptiness.

Slade retrieves the backpack ignoring Jason's little angry hiss. So, the little thief is recovering already. Good. Slade goes through the backpack thoroughly, not the quick peek inside he gave it in Gotham. He takes everything out, tossing it away after inspecting it. Jason's lips thin and purse as his meager belongings are thrown to the ground. There's even a little growl when Slade gets his books out and leaves through them before letting them fall. 

Once the backpack's empty, he turns it inside out and finds two hidden compartments, carefully sewn into it, one on the bottom and the other on the side. The bottom one is big enough to hide a taser, especially if it was wrapped with some t-shirt to disguise it as extra padding. Slade really should've been more thorough in his initial check. The one on the side contains more cash (three 50 dollar bills), medicine (one strip of paracetamol and one of ibuprofen, both long past their shelf life) and the kid's ID (Jason Peter Todd, born on August 16).

Slade does a double take when he reads the birth year. "This's a high quality fake. Where did you get it?"

"Leave my things alone, asshole!" the kid snaps. That temper of his sure is something. Slade will have to teach him to channel it in more productive ways. Tilting at windmills doesn't pay the bills in their line of work. 

"And here I thought you'd learned your lesson." Slade puts a bit of threat in his words.

The kid pales and goes rigid. His gaze darts to the side and back to Slade, then back to the side again. "If you try to run, what I just did will seem like a caress," he warns. "Now, I asked you a question. Answer it. Politely."

"It's not fake," the kid snaps.

Not precisely what Slade would call polite, but at least there's not a curse in it. "You don't look older than nine, and that's already a stretch. No way this thing is real."

"I'm thirteen!" Jason protests, voice heated with anger. He looks so offended that Slade actually believes him. Contacting Dr. Villain to check the boy over goes up in his priority list. Terribly underfed.

"All right then, you're thirteen." Slade infuses his voice with skepticism, just to rile up the boy.

It works like a charm. "I am too thirteen!" His cheeks flush with anger.

"That's just what I said."

The kid opens his mouth to protest and then closes it, frustration thick enough to cut. Cute.

Slade palms the money and the ID, enjoying how the boy's anger mounts further. He throws the empty backpack at the kid's face. "If you want any of this stuff, you have one minute to pick it up, or it stays here for the next hiker to find."

Jason's quick on the uptake. He flips the backpack back into its proper shape and starts stuffing his things inside at a hurried pace. Slade watches him with interest. The paperbacks are the first items to go in, before he moves on to clothes and other necessities. Interesting priorities. The medicine he puts into the pockets of his hoodie.

Hmm, good point; Slade should probably give him something for the pain later. He never had to with Grant and Joey after a spanking, but the damage Jason took was much heavier.

It takes the boy forty-three seconds to get everything. Nice. He trained recruits back in the military who needed at least two weeks of boot camp to get it done as quickly and they didn't have a freshly spanked bottom. 

"Give me the pills," Slade demands. No fucking way he's letting the kid self-medicate with expired pills.

Jason backs away from him. "They're mine."

Slade moves fast, training and enhanced strength have him at the kid's side before Jason can retreat. He slaps him across the face, once. He doesn't put much force into it, but the boy stumbles and falls. He screams in pain when his ass hits the ground, and whatever progress they've made is gone.

Jason starts to cry again, shaking silently. He doesn't even try to stand up, just pulls his knees in and clasps them with his arms, becoming a small ball of utter misery. God damn it!

Maybe he should've taken Robin as his apprentice after all. He'd have been able to deal with Slade's particular brand of harshness better. Slade just doesn't know how to treat kids, something both Adeline and Billy never stop harping on about. Then again Batman raised and trained Robin somehow. How hard could it be?

' _You could try talking to him, you know. Explaining things instead of punishing him because he doesn't miraculously know your rules._ ' Billy's voice again. Slade's heard this argument before.

He sighs and crouches in front of the kid. Easy and steady does it. "Jason, right?" The boy pulls himself tighter in, face buried in his knees like some human-shaped hedgehog. 

Slade shoe horns his fingers between Jason's knees and his head and grabs his chin, forcing him to look up. The tear tracks and trembling lips, the dirty smudges across the kid's face and the slightly bleeding scratches left by the bark tug at Slade's heart. Millenia of natural conditioning telling him to care and protect the young to ensure the survival of the species.

Slade _hates_ that feeling, how helpless he's against it. Deadliest mercenary in the world unmade by some snot-nosed crying child. It'd been the same with Grant and Joey. One look at them that first day in the hospital, their little baby bodies so fragile and innocent, and all he'd wanted to do was make sure nothing and no one could ever hurt them. He'd parked them with Adeline as soon as he could, got himself a contract on the other side of the world and _ran_. Being an absentee father suits him. Grant and Joey know he loves them, but they don't understand the true depth of it. It's a weakness they don't know to exploit.

"When I ask you a question, you answer it, politely," he tells Jason with the same stern voice he uses on Grant when he's getting uppity. Best thing you can do for a boy this age is let them know where the leash ends and yank it hard when they try to test it. Stops them from getting stupid. "This is the second time I've told you that. You won't like what happens if there's a third. Let's try this again. Your name is Jason, right?"

"Yes," the kid says, swallowing his sobs, trying and failing to get himself under control.

Slade digs his fingers into the boy's chin, increasing the pressure steadily. "Politely."

"Yes, sir," the boy corrects.

"Better." Slade eases his grip on Jason's chin, but doesn't let go. "We've had a bit of a rough start, Jason, so I'm gonna give you some pointers to make your life easier. You belong to me now. I'm your master. Disobedience isn't something I'll tolerate. Everything you are, everything you own is mine. The sooner you get it, the less painful it'll be for you. The pills, Jason."

The kid takes them out of his pocket and places them on Slade's extended hand reluctantly.

"Well done." Slade stands up and offers Jason a hand. The kid trembles slightly as he reaches out. Slade howls him to his feet and ruffles his hair. Jason flinches, but doesn't try to get away.

"The backpack," Slade demands.

Jason swallows, before he hands it over. He sniffles and looks away immediately. Not a happy camper, but quick in the uptake. 

"You learn fast. I like that," Slade praises him, and swallows a smirk when the boy's eyes dart to him in surprise. "Can you walk?" he asks.

Jason nods, and after a moment adds, "Yes, sir."

"In the future, you'll address me as Master. Is that clear?"

"Yes." Jason swallows and his voice breaks when he adds, "Master." But he says it.

"Good boy. Let's head back then," he says, and pushes the boy forward.

Jason keeps stumbling and swaying. Slade is surprised when he doesn't get angry at the boy, but the kid reminds him too much of a younger Joey. Grant liked to throw tantrums when he got too tired, but Joey became quieter and quieter, even before the incident. Jason's obviously exhausted.

Slade sighs and stops, waiting for the kid to catch up. "Come here," he orders.

Jason glances at him warily, but shuffles closer after a small hesitation. He stops just outside Slade's reach.

"Closer," Slade says.

Jason trembles as he inches forward. Slade sighs as the boy takes another hesitant step. A man walking the green mile would be more enthusiastic.

He hefts the kid without warning. Jason squeaks and flails, but one hand pressing against his ass has him hissing in pain and stilling, eyes wide and scared. "It doesn't have to hurt, Jason. It only hurts if you fight me," Slade says. He's still surprised by how little the kid weighs. "The choice is yours. Put your legs around my waist."

Jason obeys. Slade rearranges him until the boy's settled against his chest. He holds him up with one arm behind his back, being careful to avoid contact with the boy's ass or the back of his thighs. "Relax, kid, I'm not gonna bite."

Jason doesn't relax. A wooden board would have more give, but Slade lets it be. He walks back to the car, following the trail of broken branches and muddy footprints they left behind.

After a while, the tension starts to leave Jason's body. By the time Slade reaches the car, the kid's head is resting on his chest, and he's dozing lightly, the exhaustion finally getting to him. He stirs a bit as Slade comes to stop.

"I don't wanna go back in the trunk." He clings tighter to Slade, burying his face into Slade's neck.

"Are you going to behave then?" Slade asks. He doesn't particularly want to put the boy back in the trunk either.

"Yes," and then after a brief pause, "Master."

"Alright." Slade puts the kid down and grasps his chin again, forcing Jason to meet Slade's eye. "What are the rules?"

The kid frowns. "If you ask me something, I answer. Politely." He bites his lips before he continues in a small voice, "I'm yours now. If I disobey, you'll hurt me." He pauses briefly and his eyes well with unshed tears when he whispers, "Master."

That sums it up. Slade lets him go. "Good, don't forget. Now take a leak if you have to. We're not stopping until way past nightfall."

Jason steps back immediately, wiping his eyes with the back of an arm. He frowns at Slade, wariness written all over his face. He gazes at the lines of trees further away with longing. Still thinking about making a run for it, is he? Slade pretends not to notice. It's as good a test as any. Either the kid's clever enough to realize he won't make it far or he isn't. He throws the kid's backpack back in the trunk and closes it before picking a corner to take a piss himself.

When he gets back to the car, the kid's waiting for him. "Shotgun or backseat? Uh... Sir. I mean, Master." 

Slade studies him. "I'm gonna have to get you a booster seat." The kid's barely over four feet.

"I'm thirteen!" Jason protests.

"Age doesn't matter," Slade points out. Grant had stopped using his back when he was nine. Kid got his height from Slade's side of the family. Joey took a bit longer, though he hit a second growth spurt at sixteen and was almost as tall as Slade now. "Have you ever been allowed in a car without a booster seat?"

Jason blushes and looks away. "No, but it's been a while since I rode in a car. I'm much taller now. Master."

Slade raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "Not tall enough, but you'll have to do without one for now." If some overzealous police officer wanting to fulfill his ticket quota stops him, Slade's gonna be fucking pissed. "You may ride shotgun."

The kid's face lights up for a moment before wariness sets in again. Poor thing. Slade supposes it'll be awhile until he can relax around him, but that's all right. By the time the kid catches his footing, challenging or disobeying Slade won't even cross his mind. The first days are critical to establish the right dynamics. Jason doesn't have to like it; he just needs to endure and adapt. No one likes boot camp.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He's expecting the kid to be full of questions, but after getting in the car Jason remains surprisingly quiet. There's a bit of shifting and squirming as he tries to find a comfortable position. Not gonna happen. Kid's gonna have problems sitting for a week at least. Serves the little brat right. Tasering him, the sheer nerve.

Slade starts the car and drives back to the main road. He turns the radio volume up, when he catches _Don't Take Your Guns to Town_ playing. Good old Johnny Cash.

Jason studies him warily, but Slade pretends not to notice. After a moment the kid realizes sitting will hurt no matter what and settles down gingerly as far away from Slade as possible. A couple of more songs come and go before his tension starts to slowly bleed away. His attention shifts from Slade towards the landscape outside.

"Have you ever been outside of Gotham?" Slade asks, curious.

Jason startles, like a rabbit caught off guard. "No, never. Uh… Master." 

"How long have you been living by yourself?" He wants to get a better feeling of the boy's past.

"My mom lives with me. She probably already told the police I'm missing. They'll be looking for me. If you let me go, I won't tell them anything," Jason says. It's almost believable, except that Slade saw the kid's place. No adult lived there. 

"When I ask you a question, you don't fucking lie to my face," Slade threatens.

Jason glares at him. "That's a new rule. You didn't say anything about lying before. Just that I had to be polite."

Slade snorts. Clever little thing. "As your master I change and add rules as I see fit. Now, the truth. I already got your ID, Jason Peter Todd. It'll be nothing to find out everything there is to know about you. Don't waste my time lying, kid. It's not worth the punishment."

"Four years," Jason admits. "Dad died when I was seven, and mom when I was nine. I ran away after that. Foster homes in Gotham are worse than juvie. I wasn't doing too bad." He pauses, before asking, "Do you work for one of the gangs?"

"I work for myself," Slade says.

"Oh, okay." Jason turns away and continues watching the landscape. 

"There's a protein drink and some peanuts in the glove compartment," Slade remembers to tell him. "Take them." 

That earns him a suspicious glare. The boy opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, diving for the glove compartment. He curses, "Fuckity fuck!" when his ass protests the sudden shift. Slade's amusement rises a notch. 

Jason downs half the protein drink before he starts munching on the peanuts. He doesn't wolf them down as Slade had been expecting, but chews them slowly, pacing himself. He doesn't offer Slade any. If anything, he leans away from him, as far as the seat belt allows. Territorial. 

After a while the kid dozes off. He keeps jerking awake, whimpering or hissing, eyes checking on Slade fretfully, before the monotonous highway and the exhaustion pull him under again. Wash and repeat. At some point he finally conks out for good.

Slade drives through the night. With the job in Gotham done, he has a bit of free time. Usually, he'd have Billy brokering him a new job within the week, but taking time off to train the kid won't hurt him financially. Christmas is still eight months away, and neither Grant nor Joey expect to see him before then. According to the latest report, Rose is doing well, too. That gives him plenty of time to focus on Jason's training. By the time Christmas rolls around Slade should be able to leave the boy alone without worrying he'll run. 

Jason wakes up around 7 a.m. He's slightly confused at first, glancing around with a frown. His heartbeat jumps when he sees Slade and remembers. His face crumples with despair. Fear follows, and then _anger_.

If the kid still had the taser he'd give it another shot; Slade's willing to bet money on it. Scrappy little thing. Resting gave him back some of that bite. Slade will probably have to do something about it before the boy pulls another stunt.

"Sleep well?" he asks. 

"No," Jason grunts, and proceeds to ignore him.

Slade has to suppress the urge to laugh. No wonder Batman and the Justice League keep sidekicks. They're amusing as hell. It had been different with Joey and Grant; he'd been too worried about screwing up to be able to relax into parenting. Adeline constantly breathing down his neck with her ideas about what a good father would and wouldn't do didn't help either.

He doesn't need to be a father to Jason. The boy's his apprentice, not his son. If things don't go like Slade expects them to, or if the boy proves to be a disappointment after all, Slade can just leave him in some foster home or other and be done. Anything he does will be a step up from homelessness in fucking Gotham.

"Leave the seat belt on, but stand as far up as it allows," Slade orders.

Jason glares at him. "What for?"

"You just went from one to two. Don't test me, kid, you won't like it. Now!" he snaps in his best drill sergeant voice.

Jason obeys. The seat belt locks into place after giving two or three inches. More than enough.

"Good. Now, let yourself fall."

The kid sits down slowly, mindful of his bruised ass.

"I said fall, not sit." Slade takes his right hand off the steering wheel and catches a handful of Jason's hair before the kid even thinks to move away. He twists his fist, pulling at the roots hard. Jason leans towards him, trying to ease the pressure. "You're up to three already. Make it to five and I'll stop the car and punish you myself."

"I didn't do anything!" Jason protests angrily.

"Four. What are the rules again?" Slade prompts him. It's not surprising that the child forgot about them after a night's sleep. Training is all about constant repetition, positive reinforcement and swift punishments.

"You'll hurt me if I don't obey," Jason says. "I have to answer your questions and… Master." Understanding downs on him. "You're my master," he whispers.

Slade eases his grip, and ruffles the boy's hair, massaging his skull roughly a couple of times before letting go. "Yes, I am. Now. Rise and let yourself _fall_."

Jason licks his lips nervously. "Yes, Master." That same small, subdued whisper. He stands up, straining against the seat belt for a moment, closes his eyes and drops. Jason gasps, panting for breath as he rides the pain. His fingers dig into the upholstery of the seat, knuckles going white with pressure.

Slade switches to the right lane of the highway, slowing down, shifting part of his attention from the traffic to the boy. It's much too early for a Saturday; most people are sleeping in. The streets are practically empty.

He lowers the volume of the radio to better hear those half-swallowed, almost silent whimpers and waits another minute, allowing Jason to catch his breath. Then he says, "Three more times. Count them for me." Implacable.

The boy scrunches his face, eyes and lips closed tight. He shakes his head slightly but rises anyway, breathing shallowly. He holds the position for a second, bracing himself, and drops. "Two!" comes out like a scream, desperate and pained. Slade isn't expecting the low, "Master" that follows, but sure as hell likes it.

"Well done, Jason," he praises the boy. "Two more now. That's it, just like that," he encourages the boy when Jason moves up again. 

"Three! Master." A half sob. Tears roll down the kid's cheeks even though his eyes remain closed. "Please."

"Almost over now. Be brave for me, Jason," Slade says. "Just one more. One more. Make me proud."

Jason looks at him, dark eyelashes clumping together with tears, blue eyes wide and anguished. The thin scratches on his face have scabbed overnight, making him look like a lost kid in need of a good meal and a cuddle. Both are probably true. Slade wants to give in. He doesn't. "Be a good boy and obey, Jason."

"I'm not good, Master," Jason says. Defeated, resigned.

How many people told him that before he started believing it? "You are," Slade insists. He catches Jason's small hand with his and squeezes gently. "Come on. One more and it'll be over."

Jason clutches at Slade's hand when he rises, using it to hold himself up. The seat belt digs into his thin neck. He lets go and falls. "Four! Four, Master, please. Four," he keens.

"Good boy. I knew you could do it," Slade croons while he unfastens the kid's seat belt, ignoring the protesting beeping of the car. He pulls Jason towards him, steering the car with his left hand and uses his right arm to half-hug the kid.

Jason doesn't resist, quite the contrary. He half climbs over the center console on his own volition to get closer to Slade. His whimpers turn into loud, gut-wrenching sobs.

"Hush, it's over now. You did so well," Slade tells him. Jason presses his face harder against Slade's side, clinging to him. 

The insistent beeping of the car grows annoying after a while. Slowly, he presses Jason back into his seat once the kid's sobs die down. Jason fastens the seat belt without prompting and Slade's thankful when the beeping finally stops.

The next sign lets him know that they're not too far from Slade's safe house. Just two more exits. "Do you like hamburgers?" he asks the kid. He'd be surprised if the kid doesn't, but better make sure.

"Yes, Master," Jason says, wiping away his tears.

"Good, we'll grab something to eat then. I expect you to behave." Slade switches back to the left lane and presses down the gas pedal.

"Yes, Master."

They exit the highway fifteen minutes later. Slade chooses a 24h drive thru burger joint. A local place that makes some really fantastic burgers and even better milkshakes. Slade's not one for milkshakes, but they always cheered Joey up; he's hoping they'll have the same effect on Jason.

He orders a triple cheeseburger with an XXL portion of French fries for Jason and an extra large chocolate milkshake. He told the kid he could choose from the menu and Jason picked the largest available portion each time. Slade's not sure if it's a test to see if Slade will truly buy it for him, or if he's just using the opportunity to get as much food in as he can. Probably both. He orders a double burger for himself and a standard sized portion of fries. He'll probably end up eating half of Jason's anyway. There's no way the kid will be able to eat that much food.

There's a calculating gleam in Jason's eyes that heralds trouble, but Slade decides to test the waters anyway. His safe house isn’t that far away. If the kid tries anything, Slade can drive away, ditch the car and disappear with Jason long before the police arrive.

If the boy was going to try something, he forgets about it when he sees the food. Their bag is ready when they arrive at the pick-up window. The smell of freshly grilled burgers, crispy onions and burning fat wafts into the car when Slade lowers the window and Jason's stomach growls loudly enough that even the server hears him.

"Someone's hungry today," he jokes with that fake-cheer workers put on when dealing with customers.

Jason reddens with embarrassment and instead of using the opportunity to scream for help sinks further into his seat, looking away.

"We have a long ride behind us," Slade answers for them, picking the steaming bag and putting it on Jason's lap. The kid's stomach rumbles even louder, and the server laughs out loud, probably destroying any desire Jason might have had to ask _him_ for help. Kids get so conveniently mortified about the strangest things. Sure makes Slade's life easier.

He closes the window and drives away before Jason gets over his humiliation. "Dig in," he tells the boy.

"Thank you. Master." Someone raised the kid polite.

Jason opens the bag and tears into his burger with gusto. He inhales half of it before he starts slowing down. At the rate he's going he might actually manage the whole thing.

Slade frowns. "When was the last time you ate before I got you?" He's had the kid for over 16 hours. He should have put more food in him than one protein drink and some peanuts. Adeline was the one to remember things like meal schedules for the kids, and when she wasn't around Joey and Grant told him when they were hungry. Jason probably didn't dare.

Jason swallows the food in his mouth without chewing it, and half chokes on it. He takes a long sip of his milkshake to push the food down, before turning to him. "The night before. I have a deal with a Chinese restaurant. I take out the trash and clean the kitchen after they close and they set aside their clients' leftovers for me." That sounds like a terrible deal for all that Jason seems quite proud of it. "That's plenty to last me for the day."

In other words, just one meal a day, earned with hard physical labor. No wonder the kid's so scrawny.

"I have canned food at my place, too, but those are for winter. It's important to eat more when it’s snowing." He speaks with the same nonchalance Joey uses to talk about school, like the possibility of starving in winter is a normal, everyday thing that's just another part of life. If Slade didn't hate Gotham before, he sure as hell would now. "Uh… Master," Jason adds, looking at him with fearful eyes. "I didn't mean to forget it."

"That's fine. You didn't," Slade reassures him.

He's driving past a pharmacy when he realizes that he'll need to get some supplies for the kid before heading home. Slade doesn't have anything in his safe house—with his healing abilities he doesn't need to—but the kid will need some cooling gel for his ass, maybe even something for the bruises. At least Advil and Tylenol that haven't expired. Some vitamins? Though he should probably wait for Dr. Villain to tell him what to get on that front.

Jason's still working on his burger and has made a significant dent in the French fries when Slade parks the car and turns the ignition off. Jason furrows his brow, looking out of the window in confusion. "Are we… are we there, Master?" His voice quivers slightly.

"Not yet, I'm getting some medicine for you," Slade says.

"Medicine?" He sounds even more wary now. "I don't… I don't need anything. I'm fine, Master." His fingers twitch around the milkshake.

Slade huffs. "Tell that to your ass. It's just some cream for the bruising, Jason." He doesn't know what the kid's thinking. Is he scared of needles?

"I don't—"

Slade interrupts him. "Kid, you don't get a say. You'll stay in the car, quietly, while I buy what you need. If you leave the car or try to run away, you'll relearn what the word pain means. Is that clear?"

Jason lowers his gaze and whispers, "Yes, Master. I won't run."

"Good. You better not, I'll be keeping an eye on you through the windows." The pharmacy has a huge glass front that will allow Slade to do just that. "Finish your food. I'll be back soon." Slade takes the key and locks the car. Jason will be able to open it from the inside if he really wants to, but he won't be able to get far. Slade's counting that he won't risk it in such an unfamiliar city.

It's early enough that the pharmacy is empty and Slade can go directly to the counter. The woman helping him recommends arnica cream and ice to help with bruises and tells him to use Tylenol but avoid Aspirin and Advil. Slade gets all four anyway and some children's multi-vitamins in a spur of the moment thing. The kid is much too small. It can't hurt to start him on it while they wait for Dr. Villain to check him over.

He's just finished paying when a loud crash followed by the beeping of a car alarm startles him. He turns around slowly, a sense of foreboding washing over him. He knows what he'll see before he's finished turning.

Jason's looking from the driver's seat like a deer caught in headlights. The car isn’t where Slade parked it, but in the middle of the lawn, crashed against a tall lamp post that looks expensive. One of those metal ones with ornamental arms that curve around imitating some fancy last-century metal work. The post is bent and the front of Slade's fucking car looks even worse for wear.

Slade's eyebrows twitch. He's so angry that the anger feels like ice. Cold. Calm. Hard.

"Jennifer, right?" He addresses the woman who just helped him by the name on her tag. "I'm afraid my son just caused an accident. Do you know who I should talk to to sort this out?"

"Oh, right," the woman says, looking as startled as Jason does. "I'll—I'll call our manager. Go check on your kid, see if he's all right."

Right. That should have been the first thing for Slade to pretend to care about. Would he have if the kid was Joey or Grant? Probably. "Thank you, Jennifer."

He walks outside and assesses the damage. The kid managed to drive over the parking curb into the lawn. The store complex's landscaping didn't survive unscathed. The tire tracks have completely ruined the grass and half the topiary around the lamp post is destroyed. Slade stops in front of the driver's door and waits.

Jason swallows, eyes wide with fear. He lowers the car window and says, "I didn't leave the car or run away. You didn't say anything about _driving_ it." 

"Really?" Slade asks. What a brazen little piece of shit.

Anger washes over Jason's face, erasing the fear as if it had never been there. He thrust his chin up, looking Slade straight on. "What does it matter anyway?" he snaps. "You were gonna hurt me even if I had obeyed your stupid rule, which by the way, I did. _Master_. You think I don't know why guys like you kidnap kids like me for? You're gonna rape me and kill me or sell me to a brothel and they'll rape me and kill me, too. People'll come looking now and I'm gonna tell them that you're an evil kidnapper and a child rapist."

Slade snorts and then chuckles. He probably should be more worried about the fallout of the kid's tantrum, but no matter how deep he digs the only emotion he finds is amusement. The kid's something else alright.

"Kid, if I wanted to rape and kill you, I would've done that already. I certainly wouldn't have wasted my time buying you food or medicine. And right now, you’d be unconscious in the trunk and tied-up so tightly you couldn't move an inch. Use that little brain of yours and think it through."

"Why did you take me then? I'm of no use to you, other than… you know." He seems genuinely curious as if he can't fathom why someone might want him at all.

"Because you were clever enough to steal the tires off the Batmobile and then managed to get away from Batman," Slade explains. "Few people are able to do that, and all of them have had some kind of training beforehand. The fact that you managed it without it means a lot. You've got potential, Jason, and I'd hate to see that potential wasted. When I say I'm your master, it doesn't mean you're my slave. It means you're my apprentice."

"Your apprentice?" Jason asks disbelievingly. "Apprentices don't have to call their teachers _master_."

"In the old days they did," Slade tells him. "That's the apprenticeship I'm offering you: You'll live with me, travel with me, work for me, and learn everything I have to teach you. My word will be law for you, the punishments for disobedience hard but fair. By the time I'm done training you, you'll be so much more than you're today. You'll be someone even Batman will think twice before attacking."

They should have had this conversation before.

"Are we gonna sign like an indenture?" Jason says. "What? I like to read. I've read books about apprentices before. Masters are always mean to them and they suffer a lot, but then they get better and better and in the end they defeat their evil masters."

"You sure will have to get better and better _and better_ before you can defeat _me_ ," Slade says, amused.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that last part," Jason admits, and Slade sees some of his own amusement mirrored there. "What are you gonna teach me anyway? What's your craft?"

"I'm a mercenary." Slade's curious what the kid will make out of that.

"Like Conan the Barbarian?" Jason asks, sounding terribly excited. "You'll teach me how to fight like him? Do you have a sword?"

Slade is only vaguely aware of who Conan the Barbarian is, but teaching the kid to fight is definitely on the agenda. "Not just like him. Better. And yes, I have a sword."

"You do! Wow." Jason's suitably impressed. Then, his eyes narrow. "You aren't—this isn't just a lie so that I don't rat you out when the cops come and then you'll kill me after all?"

"If I wanted you dead, the police wouldn't be able to stop me," Slade tells him.

Jason shrugs. "Cops are useless anyway, bunch of assholes."

The kid's been on the wrong side of the law for a while now, Slade remembers. He ran away after his mother died because he didn't trust the system and has been hiding from cops and social workers since. Slade just has to nurture that distrust and the kid won't ever question the morality of what they do. A thousand times better than Robin.

He hears the footsteps and the voices of Jennifer and her manager long before they come near. "They're coming over. Let me do the talking, and if anyone asks, you're my son."

"Yes, Master," Jason says, an eagerness in his voice that wasn't there before. "Shouldn't you be like my grandfather with all that white hair?"

"Kid, you're just making your punishment worse," Slade warns him.

Jason grins at him, totally unrepentant. "Whatever you say, Gramps."

"You'll regret that," Slade promises.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a brief discussion, Slade offers to pay five grand for the damages and the manager accepts the deal. Jason plays the part of a contrite little boy who got a bit ahead of himself trying to play with daddy's car brilliantly. If the mercenary life doesn't agree with him, he should probably go into theater.

Jennifer hovers over Jason, checking him over, and somehow assumes the scrapes on his face are from the accident, which… really? She cons Slade into going back with her and buying Neosporin spray and bandaids. Jason tags along this time and asks if they have bandaids with Conan the Barbarian on them. Of course they don't. He settles for ones with Wonder Woman's symbol and seems just as pleased about it.

"How much will you have to pay to repair the car?" Jason asks Slade. He's hovering at his side, while Slade assesses the damage now that the manager and Jennifer are finally gone. At least Slade won't have to teach the kid how to hotwire a car. He'll definitely have to teach him how to drive one, though. What a fucking mess. 

"Probably another grand or so. Maybe two." It looks worse than it actually is. Nothing that should stop the car from driving, which is the important thing. Slade wants to be in his safe house already. The enhancements are all nice and good, and without them he wouldn't have been able to pull an all-nighter driving, but he's still looking forward to his damned bed.

Jason's subdued during the drive. "Am I allowed to finish the milkshake, Master?"

"If you still have room in there for it." The kid ate the whole triple cheeseburger and half of the XXL fries. Impressive.

"But I crashed your car and you had to pay a lot of money to the people in the store," he says reluctantly, as if unsure if he should be reminding Slade of what he just did.

"And you'll pay for it, but withholding food from you won't be part of it." He wonders if that's how the kid's parents used to punish him. Slade isn't opposed to sending kids to bed without supper every now and then, but not when they're obviously starved. Jason needs the calories. Maybe in a year or two it'll be different.

"Oh. Thank you, Master." It sounds heartfelt. "You really won't sell me to a brothel?"

"I already told you I won't," Slade reassures him. Realizing that Jason spent the whole drive thinking that Slade was gonna rape and kill him puts the kid's misbehavior into perspective. He can't be angry at the boy just because he tried to escape his kidnapper. Joey probably would've tried too, if he'd known how.

Jason slurps his milkshake, and then asks, "How am I gonna pay you back, though? Seven grand is _a lot_ of money. One of dad's friends tried to buy me for a night, but he only offered dad four hundred bucks and dad told him he wouldn't sell me for less than a grand."

Slade stills. The kid's dad died when he was seven. How old had Jason been when his own fucking father tried to whore him out? Slade knows he isn't gonna win any father of the year awards; Adeline and Billy have both told him enough times. Adeline's opinion he could ignore, but he trusts Billy's judgement. Still, he'd never… If that piece of shit wasn't dead already, Slade would be tempted to kill him pro-bono for the kid.

"Did he pay for it?" He doesn't look at the kid when he asks, trying to be as nonchalant about it as Jason's being. Fucking hell.

"Nah, said I wasn't worth that much." Jason shrugs, and continues slurping his milkshake.

Slade's been going at this wrong. Jason's been living on his own for almost four years now, give or take. The kid managed to get a sort-of-place to live, a sort-of-job with that Chinese joint, plus his less than legal activities to supplement his income. He understands the value of money in ways children his age seldom do, at least not in the United States. It's something Slade needs to use.

But first things first. "We're here." He parks in front of the porch. "Stay in the car. I need to check the place first. Don't even think about _driving_ or running away. Actually, don't move from your seat."

"Yes, Master." Jason gives him what he probably thinks it's a good military salute. Like with most civilians, his form is terrible. The kid sure bounces back quickly.

The alarms are all set and the extra security Slade put in place hasn't been triggered either. He walks the perimeter around the house, making sure all is as it should be and only then opens the garage.

He drives in and closes the door before he lets Jason out. The house is far away in the suburbs that the neighbors aren't too close, but that only makes them more curious.

He gives Jason his backpack back and the kid's whole face lights up like it's Christmas. He cradles the tattered thing to his chest smiling. "I get to keep it?"

"Is yours, isn't it?"

"Thank you, Master." The words are almost worshipful. Slade _really_ went wrong about this whole thing.

"This is a really nice place," Jason tells Slade as they walk into the house through the kitchen door that connects to the garage. "Like one of those TV places. Do you live here?"

It's just an average Southern suburban house, but for someone who's been living in Gotham's slums all his life it probably looks like a palace. "Sometimes." He doesn't have the heart to tell the kid that he has similar safe houses in all states, sometimes more than one. Not to mention his places abroad.

The kid's appreciation only grows when he learns that he'll have his own room with his own attached bathroom. It isn't even _that_ big, just a guest bedroom. Jason's eyes are filled with wonder anyway. "Everything is so new!" His hand trails over the washbasin reverently. He spins around slowly, as though he can't believe his good luck. "Is it really just for me?"

"I already told you that," Slade repeats indulgently. "You have an hour to get settled. Shower and wash your hair thoroughly." The kid reeks. "Toiletries are in that closet. Come to the living room afterwards. We have some things to discuss."

The kid's smile crumbles and his shoulders slump. "Right, my punishment."

"Not just that, although we'll address that, too." Slade ruffles the kid's hair. "Don't fret too much. You're mine now and I take good care of my things."

"Yes, Master," Jason says gloomily. And then, "Thank you, Master."

Slade really likes the sound of that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How much money do you think a mercenary earns, Jason?" They're sitting at the dining room table. Slade has his laptop out and has prepared some papers that are still lying face down on the table.

Jason's hair is wet from the shower. The dark bangs clump together, curling up even more than before. He's changed his clothes, too. Slade recognizes the second set from the backpack. He smells faintly of lemongrass, and Slade's sensitive nose is thankful for the improvement.

The boy shrugs. "Don't know. Conan's book didn't say."

"I'm one of the best in my field, which means I don't bother to take a contract unless I get at least 100 grand out of it, usually more, and I take an average of 30 contracts a year," Slade explains. He wants the kid to understand the economics of mercenary work. The potential it has, if he applies himself.

"Three _million_ in a year?" Jason's eyes are as wide as saucers.

"In a good year usually five to seven. It's gone up to fifteen on years I've taken particularly dangerous jobs," Slade corrects him. "I didn't pick you up as a charity case. I chose _you_ because I saw something I liked.

"You spoke of an indenture before and I like that suggestion. I don't hold much for modern methods of training. If you agree to become my apprentice, you'll be legally bound to me until the end of your contract. The training will be hard, brutal even, but I'll only make you do things I know you can do. It'll be the same for tasks and for punishments. You'll succeed, Jason. I have no doubt about it, because I'll make you."

Jason doesn't look nearly as certain or excited as he did before, when he was just thinking about the money. But that's alright.

Slade turns up the paper he prepared earlier and shoves it towards Jason. "This is what I offer you." He points to the left column. "Shelter, food, medicine, clothes, school books or any type of material needed for your training, protection and of course, knowledge. I'll train you to fight, to blend in, to investigate, to survive, to use weapons." To kill, he doesn't say. Not yet. "Everything you need to become a successful mercenary in your own right."

He moves his finger towards the second column. "This is what you'll have to give me in exchange. Absolute obedience. Loyalty. Respect. Hard work. You'll try your best to fulfill any task I give you. You'll train with all you have. You'll learn. You'll study. You'll go to school."

"School?" Jason interrupts. "I get to go to school?"

"Yes, Jason," Slade explains. "This work is more than just brawn. Basic schooling is important. Besides, as your legal guardian it'll be my responsibility to ensure that you attend."

"I know school's important," Jason says. "I like school. I want to go again."

That's certainly surprising. He assumed Jason might not want to go. Grant hated school, and Joey doesn't like it much either, preferring his piano and art classes. Even Rose dislikes it, according to the reports Slade gets on her. 

Slade continues. "The most important part: You'll belong to me. Completely. The word master isn't just lip service, Jason. You sign the indenture and you become mine. If you run, I'll catch you, bring you back and _punish you_. I'll be a fair master, but I'll still be your master. To train you I'll have to teach you things and secrets that might put me in danger. The reason old apprenticeships were as harsh as they were was to ensure that the master's secrets would not leave his house. The same applies. You'll be bound to me until the end of your indenture."

"H-how long will it last?"

"Seven years," Slade says. "Until you turn twenty-one. Plenty of time to learn what I have to teach you. You'll earn 1,000 dollars a month during the first two years." He points to the table with figures at the bottom.

Jason perks up. "I'll earn money? 1,000 dollars! In just a month?"

Slade had known that would be the right bait. It doesn't cost him much to give the kid some cash to keep him motivated. Jason understands the value of money well. Too well even.

"Wait." Jason frowns. "Do I have to pay you back for the food and stuff you buy me?"

"No," Slade huffs, amused. "That's my responsibility. The money is yours to do with as you will. Spend it, save it, gift it. I don't care. You'll be paying me for the damages you caused today, though." Slade doesn't need the money, but having the kid feel as if he has to work off the debt will motivate him further. The first six months will be the hardest for him and working towards a goal will make him ignore much. Afterwards Jason will be used to his new life.

"You're starting seven grand in the negative," Slade tells him, "but I'll give you a year to pay me back."

"At what interest rate?" Jason asks suspiciously.

Crime Alley kids are something else. Not even Grant would've known to ask that and the boy's twenty.

"Zero interest. I'm a mercenary, not a bank or a loan shark," Slade says. "I know you don't have the cash now. I'm giving you the opportunity to earn it. It's not a gift, Jason. You'll have to work for it." He taps the column that contains Jason's duties. "If you fail me, I'll punish you. If you can't endure your punishment, you lose 200 bucks. You only get to wimp out of it five times per month. There'll be no paying with past or future earnings. Five times is all I'll tolerate. After that, I'll _make you_ take the punishment."

"I understand, Master," Jason says. "I won't fail you."

"We'll see," Slade says. "After the third year I'll raise your salary to 1,500. You'll get to keep five percent of the earnings of any jobs you help me with from the moment you become good enough that I start taking you."

"5,000 or more for just one job! Holy shit!" Jason says.

Slade can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. This setup won't only keep the kid motivated, it'll hone his mercenary nature even more.

"Don't get your hopes up," Slade advises him. "I'm a strict master and you'll have to be good enough to satisfy _me_ before I even think of taking you with me anywhere. At least a year, if not more. It depends on how quickly you learn."

"I'm a fast learner!" Jason tells him, practically bouncing with excitement. "And I work hard. I'll learn everything you have to teach me and more. You won't regret picking me."

"You agree to the indenture then?" Slade pushes a pen towards Jason. "We'll have a more formal contract later on, hashing out the smaller details and you'll get to negotiate those together with me. This here," he taps the paper, "is non-negotiable."

Jason swallows. He takes the pen and pulls the paper towards him. He reads it carefully. "Can I get another raise after the fifth year? I'll probably be of much more help by then; I should be getting twenty percent of earnings when you take me with you then, too."

The kid's a fucking natural. "You'll be taking solo jobs by then. By the way, I'll get a twenty percent fee on those, even if I don't go. When I take you with me, you'll get ten."

"Fifteen, and a three grand monthly salary," Jason counters.

No protests about how unfair Slade's offer is. Just cleverly trying to get as much as he can out of the deal, even though his bargaining position is pathetic. "Fine, but only for the seventh year." Slade loves a good haggle. "Year five and six, you get two grand a month and ten percent cut on jobs."

"Deal," Jason agrees.

"Deal." Slade offers the kid his hand and Jason shakes it. 

They pencil in the changes and Jason signs the paper, looking extremely pleased with himself. He should be.

"Excellent." Slade smiles. "Now, for your punishment."

Jason's glee melts and he frowns, heart racing. "P-punishment? But I'll pay you back for the damages. You said I had a year."

"And you will, but that's just money. You disobeyed me and I told you it would have consequences."

"I didn't disobey," Jason protests. "You only said I shouldn't run. I didn't, Master."

Nice try. "Do you have a driver's permit?"

"No, Master." Jason doesn't meet his eye.

"Did you know I'd be angry with you if you got caught?" Slade goes on.

"Yes, Master," Jason admits quietly.

"Did you get caught?" he asks rhetorically.

"Yes, Master." A barely there whisper.

"I'm not against a bit of clever interpretation of rules as long as you don't get caught, Jason. If you get caught, you'll have to bear the consequences. If nothing else, it'll teach you to do things better next time." Slade stands up. "Follow me."

Slade walks to the living room and sits on the couch. Jason hovers in front of him, looking uncertain. "Strip," Slade commands.

Jason inhales sharply. He peeks at Slade from underneath his eyelashes, almost coyly. Slade looks back impassively. Waiting. Jason's fingers tremble slightly as he undoes his jeans and pushes them down to his knees. He pauses and looks up again, cheeks burning red with embarrassment. "Underwear, too?"

"Everything," Slade says.

"Right." Resigned, he pushes his underwear down, gingerly pulling the elastic band away so that it doesn't touch the tender flesh of his ass. Jason's t-shirt goes up to his upper thighs, hiding his groin. He tugs it down further, stretching the cloth. "Uh… how do you want me?"

"Everything, Jason." Slade leans back on the couch, enjoying the utterly betrayed look on Jason's face.

"What? What for?"

"You owe me absolute obedience, boy. _I_ don't owe you explanations," Slade points out.

"You said you weren't going to rape me. You said that—You—You left it out of the contract!" There's alarm in his voice. "It wasn't—it wasn't there."

"We can add it later on." Slade shrugs. He's not interested in the kid that way. Maybe after he grows a bit Slade might change his mind, but he's confident he can seduce the boy into his bed without having to be so crude as to use force. "This isn't about that."

"Then what is it about? Why do I have to strip completely?"

"Do you want to do it?"

"No, of course not," Jason says.

Slade raises an eyebrow, and allows the ghost of a smirk on his face.

"It's a test to see if I'll balk," Jason guesses.

"It's an order to see if you understand the concept of _absolute obedience_ ," Slade explains. "It's also part of your punishment. You aren't supposed to like it or want to do it. That would defeat the purpose. I'll give you many orders you might not understand or agree with. I expect you to follow them anyway."

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master." He swallows and toes off his sneakers and socks. He steps out of his jeans and underwear. His face is beet red as he finally clasps the edges of his t-shirt and takes it off.

Without clothes on, Jason looks even smaller and skinnier than Slade thought he'd be. He's not emaciated, but he's definitely missing at least a couple of dozen meals. Most of his upper ribs and hip bones are visible. His cock and balls are small and hairless, which seems odd for a thirteen-year-old. If Slade didn't know better, he'd think the kid was truly seven or eight.

"Over my lap." Slade spreads his legs, giving the boy a bigger surface to lay on.

The blush on the kid's face deepens, traveling all the way down his neck to his chest. He doesn't look at Slade at all as he climbs on top of him, face down, coltish legs trembling slightly with fear.

Damn it, the kid's ass turned practically green and purple overnight. Slade's surprised the boy isn't crying non-stop. He presses one finger to one of the worst spots gently and Jason hisses and tenses. His whole body starts quivering and he bites into the back of his forearm to stop himself from making any more noises.

Slade ignores him and picks up the remote from the side table. He turns on the TV and searches for sports, in the end choosing some Nascar Race Classic re-airs from the 80s. He throws the remote back on the table and picks the tube of arnica out of his shirt pocket. He spreads a generous amount on his hands while he watches the race.

Jason jumps and gives a startled cry when Slade touches his ass. He twists around trying to see what Slade's doing, once he realizes it isn't the spank he was waiting for. Slade snorts, and continues to spread the cream over his ass and the backs of his thighs. He isn't particularly gentle, but he isn't rough about it either.

"Settle down." He taps the boy's ass in a gentle warning. It probably still hurts like a bitch. Jason whimpers, but eases back down. He remains tense, though, hissing, twitching and trembling as Slade's spreads the arnica, pressing it into the abused flesh until it disappears completely. He adds more cream and repeats the treatment until the commercial break.

"Alright, you can get up now. " Jason hurries to obey, practically leaping from the couch. "Don't put on your clothes yet," Slade tells him, when the kid's shoots towards his discarded t-shirt.

Jason opens his mouth and then closes it, swallowing whatever protest he was about to make. Clever thing. He just saved himself some more pain.

"Stay," Slade orders and goes to the kitchen. He returns with two Glock 19’s and a small glass filled with uncooked rice. He sets the glass on the side table and beckons Jason closer. "You ever seen a gun up close before?" he asks him.

Jason shakes his head. "Dad had one, but he said if I ever touched it he'd cut off my hand."

That's one way to go about gun safety with children, he supposes. However, this is one thing Slade would prefer to actually explain. He did it with Grant first and then with Joey. One of the few regrets he has about not being part of Rose's life is that he won't be the one to explain to his little girl how to tend and care for weapons.

He mutes the TV and goes over the basics of safe firearm handling with Jason. The theory of it first, and then some light practice with the Glock. He teaches Jason to pull it apart and back together, explains how to release the magazine to unload the gun and then how to load it back again. He gives the second Glock to Jason and they go through the motions together. Jason's a quick study. Slade makes him repeat the process again three more times until he does it without hesitating. 

"Unload both of them and secure them," Slade tells him once he's satisfied with Jason's progress.

Jason presses the safety button, releases the magazine and checks that there are no bullets left in the barrel. Then he puts the first gun down, pointing away from them both and repeats the process with the second.

"Good," Slade says. "Now, your real punishment." Slade stands and picks up the glass with rice, spreading the grains on the flour. "Kneel on the rice facing the TV," he orders Jason.

Jason frowns at him, but obeys. He doesn't seem too worried about it, but that'll change soon enough. Slade's mother used to punish him like this when he was a kid himself. After a couple of minutes each grain of rice feels like a knife digging into the flesh. Jason's utter lack of padding will only make it worse.

He rearranges Jason's position, straightening his back, pulling him further up until the back of his knees are in a perfect 90 degree angle. No need to add more pain to the kid's ass. He brings the unloaded guns. "Take them, one hand each, and raise your arms to your sides, like a T." He corrects Jason's form again until both his arms are completely extended, elbows pointing to the floor and the barrel of the Glocks straight. He picks the discarded magazines and places them on the crease of Jason's extended elbows, making sure they're secure enough that they won't fall. Unless Jason moves that is. 

"You're to keep that position until the commercials start." Slade guesses that's about 15 minutes away, maybe more. "If the magazines fall, you'll start from the beginning." The second time will be much harder. He wonders how many times the kid will force himself to try before he decides to give up his first 200 dollars. Slade's setting the boy up to fail, but that's an important part of breaking him. And Slade needs to break the kid before he can turn him into a ruthless killer that will be loyal to nothing and no one but Slade himself.

"Yes, Master." Jason nods, a determined curl to his lips. Poor kid really thinks he can make it.

"Good." Slade places his hand on Jason's nape and squeezes softly. The boy gasps in surprise but manages to keep the magazines in place. He glares at Slade, and Slade smirks back at him. He squeezes Jason's nape again, less gently, and says, "Don't disappoint me."

He sits back on the couch and turns the TV volume back on, following the race half-heartedly. His attention is on Jason's small frame, caught by the boy's skinny ass. The skin gleams lightly with the last remains of the arnica cream, its deep purple a sharp contrast to the rest of the boy's pale flesh. From this angle it almost looks as if the boy is wearing shorts. It pleases Slade to know that he put those marks there. The possibility that he might put more. To mark _his_ property, forcing Jason to take it, to hurt for him. _To submit_ to Slade's ownership.

The kid's arms are the first to feel the strain. Two minutes in, Jason's trying to shift them slowly, inching them slightly up, testing how much give he has before the magazines lying on his elbows move. He makes it another two minutes by subtly changing the position first up, then down, then back up again.

The kid's clever enough to keep relaxing his shoulders whenever they start to cramp up. Slade's pleased by the boy's acute body awareness. Most people fail this exercise because they use only the muscles of their arms, which tire and give easily, unable to withstand the constant pull of gravity. Jason's using the muscles of his torso, too. Letting the sides of his body carry part of the weight.

By minute five he tries to shift his knees, the rice starting to add to the boy's misery. Slade leans forward in anticipation. He's expecting the kid to collapse around the eight minute mark. Jason makes it all the way up to ten before the muscles of his arms start trembling with exhaustion, but despite the constant quivering the magazines don't fall. Jason holds his arms' position, ignoring what has to be excruciating pain. He sways back and forth on his knees, though that's probably only worsening the pain there, the rice digging deeper and deeper with each shift, pressing into skin and bones. 

Sweat gleams on his skin. Thick beads of it roll down Jason's upper back, gathering into the small of his back before trickling down the crease of his bruised ass. 

Little hitched breaths escape the boy, growing louder with each passing second the torture goes on. A small whimper breaks out a little later, followed by a broken keening. "Master, it hurts," Jason sniffles. "It hurts so much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I took the car. Please. I'm sorry, Master."

"I know, and you'll endure this to show me exactly how very sorry you are," Slade says pitilessly. He stands up and goes to Jason, wanting to see the kid's face. He stares at his watch in amazement, thirteen minutes now.

Jason's face is wet with tears. He looks at Slade with a mix of despair and hope. It's probably the hope that almost trips him over. Seeing Slade and thinking that it might be over, that Slade will show him mercy. He won't. Jason's trembling intensifies, his whole body shaking with the effort. Fresh tears run down his face as he stares at Slade beseechingly, before he scrunches his eyes closed, realizing that there'll be no quarter given. The kid bites his lip bloody, as if that new piece of pain might distract him from the agony his body is in.

That soft, keening sound continues. Slade's not sure if Jason even knows he's making it. It might be the way his body has to let some of the pain out. Like the tears. A deep male voice preaching the wonders of Home Depot surprises Slade. The kid actually did it. The boy's so far down in his little world of misery that he doesn't notice is over.

Slade's slightly conflicted. He wanted the kid to fail, but seeing him succeed fills him with a sense of pride he wasn't expecting. "You can let go now, Jason, it's over."

Jason doesn't hear him. Slade crouches in front of him and pries his fingers from the guns. "Let go. It's over. Hush, it's over. Such a good boy."

Jason opens his eyes and stares, unaware of the commercials blaring on. He throws himself at Slade without prompting, clinging to him and hiccoughing against his chest, "Thank you, Master. Thank you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Thank you, Master." Over and over as if the respite is something Slade gave him instead of something he earned. 

Slade wonders if this might be an even better way to break the boy, to win the kid's loyalty. Teaching him that comfort only comes after he's suffered for Slade's approval. With time and patience Jason will learn to crave it all: the pain, the comfort that comes with it, but more importantly, his submission to Slade's will.

"You did very well." Slade kisses Jason's forehead, wiping the tears on his cheeks and pulls the boy up, carrying him to the couch. Jason doesn't protest at all, just holds on tighter. He settles on Slade's lap, resting most of his weight against Slade's chest. Slade soothes him with meaningless praise, enjoying how the boy clings to him. He puts some more of the arnica cream on Jason's knees, which are red and starting to swell slightly from kneeling so long on the rice. The boy _thanks him_. 

Afterwards Slade pulls the discarded quilt from the back of the couch and arranges it over Jason's shoulders, keeping him warm. "You're a natural, Jason. Much better than Robin would'd have been."

"Robin?" Jason asks with a frown, pushing slightly away to glance at Slade.

"I was going to offer Robin an apprenticeship," Slade tells him. "But then I saw you, and knew that you were it."

"Batman's Robin?" Jason clarifies.

"Yes, Batman's Robin."

"You think I'm better than him?" Jason asks with wonder.

"Not yet, but if you train hard enough, one day you might be," Slade says. "You'll have to train hard. Robin's an excellent fighter. It'll be years until you can reach his current level, and by then he'll have improved again." It's good to give the boy high standards to aim for, a giant white whale to chase after his whole life. That'll push him to be better.

"I'll learn everything you have to teach. You won't regret picking me, Master. I'll be better than Robin, better than Batman even, someone you can be proud of," Jason swears, looking at him with determination. 

Slade smiles, triumphant. "My good boy, of course you'll make me proud. How could you not? You're mine after all, aren't you?"

"Yes, Master," Jason says, and lays back on Slade's chest, hugging him and resting there, relaxed and trusting. "I'm yours."

El Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
